


All the Love I Have Left to Give

by OmalleyMeetsTibbs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicide, Suicide Notes, don't blame me for the tears you will shed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25120048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs
Summary: John decides his time is done. Sherlock lives through the aftermath.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 58





	All the Love I Have Left to Give

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE read the tags. 
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to [AnneCumberbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/pseuds/AnneCumberbatch) and [simplyclockwork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/works) for their beta and edit work. They took this story from flat to EXPLODING. All tears are their fault. ;P

After a long day of fighting and hiding, John lies awake in the middle of the night, never having fallen asleep. He glances at the man next to him. The dim moonlight casts shadows across Sherlock’s sleeping body, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of deep sleep. Dark curls halo a pale, slack face, a trickle of drool forming in the corner of his mouth. The sight cuts John this time, instead of healing him like it normally does. He thinks about kissing Sherlock but doesn’t want to take the chance of waking him up. It wouldn’t be fair. Instead, John slips out from under the covers, shifting his weight out a limb at a time until he is fully standing.

He pads through the hall and makes his way to the old bedroom upstairs. Having long been abandoned, only a few things are left there now, but they are what he needs. When he reaches the door, John hesitates a moment before turning the knob and opening it. Inside, the room is dark and smells musty and stale, a perfect reflection of John’s state in life. Flipping on the light switch, he closes and locks the door behind him. It wouldn’t do to let Sherlock find him like this, nor Mrs. Hudson. The lock should at least slow them down. Delay the inevitable.

Once he situates himself at the old makeshift desk, John takes out a single pen and a blank sheet of paper. He places both on the desktop, his movements precise. This is not a task to be taken lightly. John needs to make Sherlock understand. He _has_ to. As he traces a finger across the empty page, he imagines the words he will write there, the words Sherlock will read, words to make him know, words to help him let go, move on.

John picks up the pen. It is heavy in his hand, the sleek black casing smooth under his fingers. Lining up the tip of the pen with the top right corner of the paper, he writes the date. John knows this part is important, even if he doesn’t understand why. The rest of the letter follows quickly after.

Once finished, he tucks the note into an envelope and seals it shut. With a sturdy hand, John writes Sherlock’s name on the front, alongside an order to keep the door closed and call the Yard. After sliding it under the door, John lets out a resigned sigh, fists clenching over and over before sitting back down at his desk. His left hand just now beginning to tremble slightly, John reaches into the desk drawer and pulls out his gun.

A sound jolts Sherlock awake. Instinctively, he reaches for John, only to find the sheets empty and cold. Heart racing, he gets out of bed, telling himself John must have just dropped the kettle in the kitchen, waking him from nightmares. John had been sleeping poorly as of late, and Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised to find him awake and making tea. His brow furrows, realizing John getting out of bed hadn’t woken him as it usually did. He tosses and turns too much. It’s likely due to the scar tissue in his shoulder acting up, and Sherlock doesn’t think John even knows he does it. He really should have John get it reassessed.

When Sherlock enters the kitchen, he doesn’t find John or the tea kettle. Strange. He pads into the dark and still sitting room. The silence of the flat begins to sink into Sherlock’s bones, a sinister air seeping into his lungs with every breath. His heart beats faster with the realization that John has either left, or is upstairs, in his old room. Both options make Sherlock shiver. Starting with the room upstairs, he hears Mrs. Hudson climbing the stairs, heading that way as well. The noise, whatever it was, must have been loud enough to wake her, too.

With a slow-dawning, sick feeling, Sherlock remembers his dream. Gunshots. His eyes grow wide, and he runs up the stairs, two at a time. At the top, the door to John’s old bedroom is closed. The sight of it stirs something in his chest, tight and hot and vile, his mind shrinking away from what might rest beyond the closed door. A small, white rectangle sits outside, on the cold hardwood. His name, witten on the envelope in John’s messy scrawl, catches his attention. Stooping down, one hand covering his mouth, Sherlock picks it up, reading the note added beneath his name. He scrabbles for the doorknob and finds it locked. Banging on the door, he cries out John’s name, desperate for a response. “John!” When he doesn’t receive an answer, he yells for Mrs. Hudson, screaming at her to call 999. The sound of her retreat echoes through Sherlock’s head as he throws his weight against the door, trying to break it open. Tears stream down his face, and he is still calling out John’s name, despite the lack of an answer. The door doesn’t budge.

With time running out, John’s life likely trickling away in pulses of lifeblood, Sherlock rushes downstairs, clinging to the letter in his hand. He has to find his tools, the lock picks, but he can’t remember where he put it. His coat? His trousers? His wallet? Darting from place to place, Sherlock searches frantically for the set. By the time he finds it, he can hear sirens coming up the street, both ambulance and police.

He runs back upstairs. His hands fumble as he attempts to pick the lock, determined to open the door and get to John. His John. _Oh, god, John._ But his hands shake, and his efforts are useless, impossible. A gruff voice speaks by his ear, followed by the weight of strong arms wrapping around his shoulders. They pull him away from the closed door, almost dragging him when he refuses to walk, the letter crumpled in his hands. Sherlock watches the police break down the door as he is dragged, struggling, down the stairs.

Everything is a blur. Sounds and sights and flashes of emergency lights, nothing holding meaning, nothing making sense. Then, the gruff voice of Lestrade breaks through the haze hanging over him, calling his name. The DI’s familiar grey hair and brown eyes fill Sherlock’s vision, helping Sherlock focus. Grounding him. When the world finally settles into something recognizable, everything inside him shuts down, replaced with a blank whiteness. Sherlock blinks up at Lestrade, realizing he has, somehow, made it into a chair at the kitchen table. The feeling of paper, creased and crumpled in his hand, demands his attention. He looks down.

The stark black print of his name in John’s handwriting stares back at him. He feels nothing, numb and empty, a blank slate wiped clean. Turning the envelope over in his hands, Sherlock runs a finger along the seam until he finally breaks the seal. The crisp folds, still visible amidst the mass of crinkles, speak to John’s determination, his surety. The words swim before his eyes.

They don’t make any sense. He reads it over, gaze skating over the message without comprehension. In his head, only one word remains, repeating itself over and over. _Why?_ Without looking up, he hands the letter to Lestrade, the only explanation he can offer for John’s inexplicable actions. It is evidence, after all. As Greg reads, Sherlock can hear him stifling his reaction, muffling soft gasps and sobs behind a hand. Sherlock knows what the note says and what it means, but he still can’t make any sense of it. He never will. It’s unfathomable, and nothing will ever make sense again. Not anymore.   
  
  


_January 28th_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_This is what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note? You said that to me once. And I suppose it’s true. I just need you to understand. I need you to understand why. To understand and forgive me, so you can move on._

_There is a time in every person’s life when they have fulfilled their purpose. When they have done what they were born on Earth to do. Some people, because of this, are more important than others. You are one of the important ones, one of the most important, in fact. Your mind, your passion, it changes the world. You make it better. Just as you made me better, for a time. Not necessarily through how you do things, but through_ what _you do. You add knowledge. You solve crimes. You catch the bad guys. You bring people hope. You save people. That’s all you. All a part of your work. And you need to keep doing that. Saving the world. What you do is so important. And your work is not done. You have so much left to do and so many people left to save. Nothing should get in the way of you doing your work. She’s a jealous wife, your work. I’m sure she will be happy to have your full attention again. She deserves it. I didn’t._

_I am no longer one of those important people. And that’s ok. My purpose was fulfilled a long time ago, Sherlock. I wasn’t supposed to survive Afghanistan, certainly never was meant to make it this far. I’ve been living on borrowed time. I’m glad it was time spent with you, but it was just that: borrowed time. To have had the chance to meet you, work with you, it must have been some sort of reward for the lives I saved in Afghanistan. But that time has run out. I’m not supposed to make it past this point, I know that. I have run out of borrowed time. I’ve realized I only add darkness to this world, now. More death, more hurt. I’m slowing you down, and I can’t allow that anymore. It’s not right. Not when what you do is so important. Not when so many people rely on you to be quick, to be brilliant, to be the hero._

_You told me something, once. You told me you weren’t a hero. You’re a genius, Sherlock, but you’re an idiot when it comes to yourself. You are the bravest, most human, human being I have ever known. I said that before, and I’m saying it now. The world needs you. Needs your help, your focus, your dedication, and your kindness. I know that you don’t let many people see how kind you are, but I think you should try letting them._

_Thank you, Sherlock, for all the time and the love you have shown me. It has been such a wonderful reward._

_All the love I have left to give is and always will be yours,_

_John_


End file.
